


Questions

by fratcalum



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Death, Heavy Angst, Lashton - Freeform, M/M, Malum - Freeform, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Self-Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fratcalum/pseuds/fratcalum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashton hated his timer. He didn't believe he should sculpt his life around waiting for what had lost its meaning - love. Years passed, and contradictions and unusual happenings occured that made him rethink what he'd believed since he'd gotten his timer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Age Eleven

**Author's Note:**

> This will be divided into three parts. Each 'chapter' represents a certain age - eleven, sixteen, and twenty. Enjoy enjoy enjoy bby.

Ashton didn’t understand.

“Ashton, it’s your eleventh birthday,” his mother stated.

“I know that! But why are my timer and my birthday so important, Mom?” he asked for the one hundredth time. He flashed his bent arm in the air so he could look at it again. 

Etched softly into his wrist had been a timer. It was tiny and had a bunch of zeros on it. He didn’t understand why the mysterious tattoo-like thing was there, so he tried asking his mom. She wouldn't tell him. 

While lost in thought, the weird itchiness came back again. It snapped him back into reality, and Ashton scratched at it relentlessly. His wrist was red and blotchy and had white bumps surrounding the timer. It freaked him out. "Ashton, stop scratching! The timer might fade away if you do that!” his mother demanded sternly.

His hand dropped to his side and was shoved into his jeans. “Fade away?” He didn’t understand what that meant. How could it fade away? It burned itself into his own skin against his will; the least the pesky timer could do was not fade away.

"Yes, fade away. Now, let those bumps heal. Don't touch them, okay? They'll disappear with time," she ordered. Ashton groaned and rolled his eyes, as signs to show he wasn't afraid of causing a scene.

The timer was problematic already, and the young boy hated that. 

When he’d woken up this morning, he’d awoken to a sharp, burning sensation trailing up his left arm. He had screamed out in pain as soon as he witnessed his flesh boil. 

The irritation was unbearable, so he scratched mercilessly at the most infected area on his arm - his wrist. Soon enough, skin was peeling off, only causing him to scream louder. The broken skin exposed tiny black numbers, which were decreasing rapidly. He watched in awe (and surprisingly ignored the pain) as the final few numbers reached zero.

His mother rushed into his room, frantically searching for the cause of her son’s disturbance. When he showed her his arm, she’d relaxed. “Oh, your timer’s forming,” was all she said. From there, he didn’t bother questioning it because his mother looked happy. She kissed his forehead to her happiness. Besides, it sounded cool to him - a timer. He had his own timer. 

Though he didn’t know what a timer was, he felt like it wasn’t important. Did a timer help to keep track of time? Was it an alarm clock? He sucked at waking up for school. It could help him a lot. 

"So why is this dumb thing so important?" he repeated, hoping to get a real answer from her this time.

“It’s important because it's essential for us to have. Girls and boys all around the world get their timers when they’re nine, ten, or eleven. You got yours today, on your eleventh birthday,” she explained.

'Eleven,' it didn't roll off her tongue smoothly. Ashton heard the stutter between each syllable. Was eleven a bad age?

Ashton didn't know.

He didn't think too much of the awkward mannerisms of his mother. Barely paying attention to her words, Ashton’s wide, bright eyes were admiring the dark numbers on his tiny wrist. “Will it always be this small?” he mumbled after minutes of inspection.

The numbers were enclosed around a thin, feeble rectangle. It seemed like a cheap design to him, considering all the pain he’d underwent to get this stupid little clock. 

“No,” she confirmed, “it’ll mature and get prettier as you get older. Here, look at mine.” Ashton’s mother pulled up the sleeve of her fleece jacket. 

The surroundings of the large clock were rounded out. It was an oval, unlike his wobbly rectangular one. Inside the two lines creating the shape, bold Aztec-inspired lines and patterns gave a three-dimensional illusion to the piece. Splattered around the odd oval were curls and dots of various thicknesses and sizes.

"See? It's pretty, isn't it?" Ashton could only nod weakly in agreement because he was too engulfed in memorizing every detail of her timer.

His mom was right. It was pretty. Ashton wanted his to be pretty, even prettier than his mom’s.

“Mommy?” he'd said while tugging on her pyjama pants as a cry for attention. While doing so, his sparkling eyes met his mother's dazzling ones for a fraction of a millisecond. A smile broke out on her face, ear-to-ear.

Ashton was adorable, completely and utterly adorable. 

His figure was slim, and his active sports and school schedule helped to maintain that. Though he didn’t care about his body. It wasn't a concern to the growing lad. He'd never put any effort into staying fit. Maybe that was just his age convincing him to do that, he wasn’t sure. Frankly, he was just fit; it wasn't like it was difficult for him to stay like that. 

Unanimously, everyone agreed that his best feature was his dimples. His dimples, once the most neglected aspect of his face, had evolved to the most prominent. The reason for this was because he smiled a lot. With every smile they curled deeper into his cheeks, due to those frequent experiences. Ashton was a happy child, and it showed.

He liked them - not only liked, but loved. Girls always poked them when he'd smile. 

Also, his smile was so wide and so unnaturally cheery, thus kick-starting his dimples' creations. Flash one of those infamous grins, if he was trying to trick his mom into buying him more Pokémon cards. It never failed.

"Mommy," he called again.

He loved the attention. He didn’t have to work hard to get it. It just came to him, and he accepted it with open arms.

“Yes, sweetheart?” she acknowledged.

“Will my timer be as pretty as yours, one day?” A glint of hope had cloaked his wonderstruck appearance as yet another question passed his lips.

Her smile only grew wider. Ashton was a beautiful boy, and he had no problem showing it. Sometimes, he would do something cute simply because of subconscious habit. It was natural to him. “It will be, Ashton, but it won’t be as pretty as you.”

Ashton giggled. Safely, he could admit: he was not used to being called pretty. 

He was used to ‘adorable’ and ‘cute.' He was used to, ‘Oh, you’re just so adorable! I could eat you right up!’ 

It was weird, because he just turned eleven. He'd figured he reached a mature age. He didn’t want to be called ‘cute’ anymore. To accommodate his manly age, he should be called ‘handsome.’ He liked handsome.

But he also liked pretty.

He’d never heard ‘pretty’ as a descriptive word for his looks. Strangely, it’d made the youngster giddy and jumpy. It made his giggling seem relevant, so he giggled louder. His mother chuckled, the sight of her son looking so happy, making her happier.

They’d calmed down, by Ashton’s manly request (also known as, 'Stop, Mommy, I'm handsome, not pretty!'). Now behaving seriously, Ashton flipped on the curiosity switch in his brain. Laughter was removed from the atmosphere, though it twitched at his mother’s lips. 

As he examined her timer, he saw the timer had big zeros on it, just like his. He smiled, happy they’d shared that resemblance. The serious act that he’d tried to mask himself with broke into pieces. Though he didn’t mind. It was hard acting manly and serious, anyways.

“Mom, you have all zeros, too!” he chirped. She laughed, sharing his excitement instead of explaining. She’d do anything to prevent the curious child from asking questions she couldn’t answer properly.

However, he’d realized hers was inked on the inside of her forearm. That made him wonder.

“Why is yours there?” he interrogated, poking at his mother’s still timer. Even though there were only zeros, Ashton could tell her timer was frozen in place. It was dead, for nothing could rev it back to life. Even if it had a mere second left, it wouldn’t budge. It looked pale and monotone against her warm skin. “Why is mine on my wrist?” 

Question after question after question - his mother could take only so much. It wasn’t his fault though. His brain couldn’t handle the unknown. His hazel eyes were clouded with a frenzy of questions, always, but none had the strength to force Ashton to ask them.

Many questions to ask her, little power to ask them.

The youngster couldn’t stand when he wasn’t aware of what was happening. If an event had passed that he missed, he’d beg until someone told him what happened. Curiosity was the child’s strongest attribute. 

Well, only sometimes.

When it isn't played to it’s fullest capabilities, it only worsened a situation. He didn’t know how to filter his curiosity. Just like many things in his life, he had no power over it. No one really had control over what controls them.

However, Ashton’s mother didn’t have the time nor patience to explain everything to him. It would be too much information for his stuffed brain to withhold. “You’ll understand when you’re older, sweetheart. Now…” she trailed off, looking for an excuse to escape this topic, “you don’t have to go to school today. I know how painful getting your timer can be.” At that, she kissed his forehead, leaving her confused son alone in the middle of his dim bedroom. 

Later that day, he left his bedroom and padded down the extensive hallway recklessly. His slightly massive feet pounded against the squeakiest of floorboards, and the sound made Ashton wince. Fortunately, he was energetic enough to leap to the telephone, instead of walk. Standing on his tip-toes, he made grabby hands at the corded electronic until he was successful.

Ashton punched in the memorized phone number of his friend, Calum, on the dialpad. He'd anxiously waited until he picked up. 

“Hello?” Calum’s high-pitched voice greeted on the other end of the call.

“Calum, guess what?” Ashton urged, skipping the useless smalltalk immediately. The jittery boy could be impatient at times, especially if what he was waiting for took too long to come into the picture. This happened to be one of the occurrences. He barely could talk because he was so excited. 

Though he wasn’t sure why he was excited, he knew that a timer pierced into his skin barely a few hours ago. That’s enough to be excited about, right? According to his mom, it’s a ‘very big deal!’

“What?!” Calum shrieked, the jitters overwhelming the skinny boy's body already. “Oh, and happy birthday, Ashton!”

“Thank you!” he replied. “You got your timer when you were nine, right, Calum?” He, being one of the very few kids, got his timer last year, at the vibrant age of nine. 

Ashton's mother once told him that she got her timer when she was nine, and that was apparently the greatest event to occur in her life, aside from meeting his father. ‘Age nine is a rare age to get a timer!’ she said . Ashton knew that if you got one at age nine or ten, the timer planned something extra, extra special for you.

That made Ashton worry. He got his timer when he was eleven. What did that mean?

Ashton didn’t know.

Calum, when he’d gotten his timer, literally would not shut up about it. The dark-haired lad was only a year younger than Ashton, so Calum’s ten, presently. Do the math; you would discover that it’d been a whole year, and the younger boy was still talking about his timer! 

It was like he was infatuated with it. Whenever Ashton asked what the purpose was of the timer, Calum would clamp his mouth shut. He understood, based on the assumption, that Calum knew only as much as Ashton did. If not, even less than Ashton.

“Yeah… so what?” A moment of silence tore through the static. Suddenly, a gasp then fell from the boy’s mouth. “Birthday… Eleven years old… Timer... Oh, Ashton, y- you finally got your timer!”

“Yes!” Ashton squealed. Calum laughed and celebrated with him for a hefty portion of the phone conversation. “But, wait, Calum…”

“What?” Both lines carried a heavy, serious vibe to them now. Ashton didn’t do well with serious.

Ashton regretted what'd spilled out of his unfiltered mouth, “I don’t understand what it means.”

“You don’t understand what?” Calum repeated.

The impatient boy sighed exasperatedly. “I don’t understand what a timer does. Like, what's it's purpose? No one’s telling me, not even my mom.”

“Mate, she isn’t telling you because she can’t,” Calum informed. The birthday boy furrowed his eyebrows. "Don't you know that?"

Turned out that Calum knew more than Ashton.

“Why can’t she?”

“Because you have to find out what a timer does on your own."

“My mom didn’t tell me that I had to wait even longer!” Ashton whined. He hated waiting. Waiting rose questions. Questions dug up answers. 

Ashton, though, never got any answers.


	2. Age Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all needed a little young Ashton in our lives lol. Now he's older so enjoy enjoy enjoy bby

Ashton understood the concept of the timer now. He figured it out by his lonesome throughout the years, which was expected of millions of teenagers near his age. Skepticism pricked at his skin enough to drive him to dig for answers about three years ago.

Your parents had a massive influence on your future, and your timer, apparently. If both or one of your parents had gotten their timers at a certain age, it was expected of you to get your timer at that age (or one of those ages) as well. 

Even though his father passed away before Ashton was born, he'd known that his father got his timer when he was ten. His mother got hers at the mere age of nine. Gluing the pieces together, it made no sense that his timer itched at his sensitive skin for the first time on his eleventh birthday.

He researched and researched until his mind went numb to find out why. Nothing in the percentages or statistics he'd memorized stated that a child developed their timer at an age their parents didn't. It was an actual scientific theory - a proven law of science - that was expected in nature to occur. However, Ashton alone defied that fact of nature, a basic principle of science, in under an hour on his birthday.

To any other kid, that'd be rebellious and hardcore. To Ashton, it was just another contradiction in his life that he'd have to push away and ignore.

His curiosity clashed with the world's grasp on knowledge. He always wanted to know more from the people who knew more, but they ignored him. They hated questions. Questions weren't the right conversation starters. If this was the eighteen-hundreds, questions were what people loved to hear.

It'd taken his pathetic, younger self countless hours of cramming useless data into his mind to realize why. 

All questions had been answered already. In fact, there weren't any people felt needed to be asked anymore. Many people assumed that their lives were perfect and skepticism only rose self-doubt. 

When it came to themselves and what was best for them, people hated questions. Everyone believed, that with the timer and finding true love shaping their lives, nothing was flawed. A timer helped a person achieve their selfish needs. 

This whole world was populated with people who worshipped a clock engraved on their skin. On their skin lies their future, their moment to meet their soulmate. A timer held your 'fate' in your hands, sometimes literally. There were people who have timers on their thumbs.

Yeah, forget marrying your high school sweetheart. Instead you were going to marry the person who'd coincidentally ran into you, spilled coffee on your new shirt and apologized as both of your timers froze at 00:00:00.

Bingo. There was your soulmate, the only thing that mattered to everyone in this brainless generation. To be frank it made him want to laugh. 

Obsessions with love this world possessed were obsessions that will never seep into his brain. Ashton didn't think love was worth as much value as people gave it. For fuck's sake, their society was formed around the concept of finding your soulmate. People thousands of years ago opened a gateway for future generations to celebrate their self-obsessed traditions more than they had.

Back then, the idea wasn't too sophisticated, because they didn't understand what the hell was piercing through their skin. Even when the timer froze at 00:00:00, their soulmate eyeing their beauty, had it not clicked in their mind.

Generations afterwards, they became obsessed with themselves. They wanted everything that'd benefit them. Take all, give none. One of the most popular requests? Love. 

What sickened Ashton most about the past was love used to be a feeling shared between a man and woman. Just a man and woman. According to numerous studies and articles about their history, not one man or woman had been paired with their similar gender. 

Wishing to be with a person of your gender was not spoken aloud or thought, thus sculpting the man-made concept of 'sin.' To many humans, the biggest 'sin' one could do was lie in bed with a person of the same sex, or have a soulmate of the same sex. Eventually, timers allowed nothing besides meetings between a man and woman.

Sin was a weird thing to Ashton. What the hell was sin to everyone else? If self-obsession and greed were acceptable in society, why was loving someone of the similar gender the worst possible thing one could do? It wasn't that different from a heterosexual relationship. The love shared between two females or two males was as strong (if not, stronger) than between a man and woman. Quite honestly, it confused Ashton.

Thankfully, people spoke up about the issue, and small changes were made. Now, more than ever, men who strived to be with men didn't have to hide their wish. The same went for women (though that took unnecessarily longer for people to accept).

Having developed a proper usage for the timer, people's hideous selfishness became the norm. Wanting to have a timer immediately and have their wish granted, it aggravated people that timers didn't appear on their near-perfect flesh until adolescence. 

The timer would lay underneath your skin until either age nine, age ten, or age eleven. You were born with the timer, but it had to mature before it could be used. Get a clock at a younger age, and the first time meeting a soulmate was more unusual, exciting.

If your timer broke through your skin at age nine, it was guaranteed you'd have an unforgettable run-in with your soulmate. At age ten, it was a gamble, a fifty-fifty chance. Either you get a classic and cliché experience, or an interesting and vivid experience. 

Like many, many men and women, Ashton first had lain eyes on his at the age of eleven. Meeting his soulmate was bound to be boring. It was probably going to be disappointing, even, but Ashton was used to disappointment.

For example, his first taste of disappointment was on his eleventh birthday. The melancholic approach from his mother worried him that day. He was eleven; finally, he'd gotten his timer. However, there was a huge red flag.

His mother had gotten hers when she was nine. His father, when he was ten. It was scientifically improbable that Ashton could get his timer at age eleven. 

As he discovered, his mother had questioned that herself; she'd tried to hide it though. Her son already had too many questions on his mind. She didn't want him to have another one. Even at age eleven he knew damn well how concerned his mother was, thus shaping his own body of curiosity.

Not to mention, a timer always started at 00:00:00. Of course, Ashton's timer did, which was a relief to him. As he'd read online, the timer should stop increasing in time and start counting down within exactly 7 days, a full week. No more than a week. No less than a week. Everyone's life would start a week after a timer boiled over their skin for the first and final time.

Ashton's timer took a whole month to finalize the countdown.

That freaked Ashton out. Moreover, it angered him. 

He didn't care to question it. He was tired of questions. He was tired of being so different to everyone else. 

“I'm not going to say it again, Cal. I know my shit, so shut up,” he fired back to his best friend, Calum.

"I just don't understand. How is it stupid?" Calum pondered, baffled. Ashton rolled his eyes, knowing they'd had this discussion already.

He sighed, getting up from his chair to dispose his food in the garbage can. The lads were at school, and it was lunchtime. Once he sat down, he saw the confusion in Calum's eyes. "Mate, our entire existence is composed of relying on a damn clock to countdown to when you spontaneously run into a random-ass stranger. And boom! That stranger is your soulmate. It makes no fucking sense."

As he drank his soda, Calum decided to speak up, "I think it's romantic."

Ashton almost choked on his drink. "Ro- Romantic? Calum, are you fucking kidding me?"

Calum shook his head. He was being serious. 

Ashton was close to smacking him. "Calum, it is in no way, shape or form, romantic. This generation has completely lost the meaning of the word 'love.' People believe that their life is meaningless until they have a soulmate. People have been brainwashed to believe love is the only thing that will bring purpose to their lives. If you ask me, I think that's fucked up."

Calum stared at Ashton for the longest time, and Ashton didn't like that. Calum did that a lot. For some reason, he zoned out whenever he'd think about something. Much to Ashton's luck, Calum always zoned out while they were talking. "Well, I want to meet my soulmate. I'll have someone to talk to besides you. You're such a downer," were the sentences Calum was struggling to form.

Calum was Ashton's best friend. He was the only person who truthfully dealt with Ashton's analytical ways. "Okay, dumbass," Ashton replied, "all I'm trying to say is love doesn't shape yourself as a person. It doesn't measure your self-worth. Independence is a concept that parents aren't even teaching their kids anymore."

"Mate, you need to stop researching so much," Calum suggested. "You're the only person I know who hates timers."

Ashton shrugged. He couldn't care less. Yes, he hated timers. He hated the science of such a thing. He hated the injustice, and he hated how blindly people had conformed to this lifestyle.

If he had any choice, he'd rip the timer off his wrist. Without a choice, he was forced to do what others did - waste his life for love. "Sorry that I refuse to conform to the self-obsessed bullshit this society believes is the only thing a woman or man needs to be accepted."

Calum didn't feel like hearing Ashton's bantering. He could put up with it most of the time. Today he just couldn't stand it. Ashton's thickened Australian accent didn't suit his anger or his cynical point-of-view. He had an excuse to leave, so he stood up. "I've got to go to class early. Mr. Beckett wants to talk to me about my 'unacceptable behavior in class.' See you later, Ash."

Ashton only forced a smile as his way to say goodbye. Calum left his friend alone. Alone, as Ashton usually was. Out of habit, he stared down at his wrist. He gasped.

What he saw shocked him.

A thin, bleeding line had sliced through his skin. 

"What the..." Ashton breathed out. "Is that- It can't be..."

He stared at the broken skin, oblivious to the school bell ringing. Lunch was over; students were rushing out of the lunchroom. Ashton remained in his seat. No one cared though. No one really talked to him, aside from Calum.

Ashton didn't mind. He didn't hate his classmates at all, for he only hated their blind belief in the whole 'I have a clock on my arm and I'm useless until I have my soulmate' concept.

They were the least of his concerns, however. He was worried about covering the cut. His large hand squeezed his wrist, and the blood created a glaze over it. Ashton started hyperventilating.

"Oh, holy shit," Ashton said, eyes widened with realization and heart beating dangerously fast.

You and your soulmate shared the same marks or bruises. Luckily, you didn't feel the direct pain inflicted when your 'true love' hurt him/herself. However, the injury impaled your flesh as it was happening.

The injury Ashton just got wasn't any accident. His soulmate didn't get scratched by a cat or scrape his knee. Someone else wasn't hurting his soulmate.

No, his soulmate was hurting their own self. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Ashton had cursed as he watched two more horizontal lines rip his flesh open. The worst part about this was he couldn't do anything to prevent it. Ashton could only sit there and wait until it's all over.

One had grazed over the rectangle enclosing his timer. 

Ashton was panicking. He was so panicked that he hadn't realized his timer stopped completely right before the cuts pierced through his skin. All he was concerned about was cleaning them up without anyone seeing. If anyone saw the blood pooling over the cuts, they'd shake their head and walk away. Like they'd always done, they'd ignore him.

Suddenly, Ashton flew up from his chair, noticing how empty the lunchroom was. Class had started, and he was surely late. 

Deciding that class was rubbish compared to what his soulmate was doing, he stumbled into the bathroom. "Okay, calm down, Ashton... Calm down," he whispered. "I just have to clean this up." He didn't know who his soulmate was, but he definitely didn't want his soulmate to tattoo their skin with their own hurt.

Sadly, he couldn't do anything about that. His soulmate could tattoo his skin as much as they desired; Ashton was powerless until they'd meet.

Ashton pulled paper towels out of the dispenser. Before applying pressure to the cuts, he washed the overwhelming amount of blood off with water and washed his hands. The clear water was tainted with the red substance. "Fuck, what is going on?" he groaned, confusion raising questions in his mind.

He once had twisted his ankle, but this was worse.

As he stared down at his wrist, he noticed that his timer was counting down; only, the time had changed.

It no longer read three years, five months, eleven days, and forty-eight minutes. According to his timer, he'd meet his soulmate in four years, two months, fifteen days, and thirty-six minutes.

Ashton knew what was going on (and he can thank the researching he'd done). Within seconds, his curiosity dwindled and the questions he hadn't intended to answer were answered. Turned out that researching more than he should have was a damn good thing.

Though extremely rare, there had been reported happenings in which a timer had reset and read a different time. Usually, the time change would be longer than what it originally was.

It was clear to him, eyes flickering to the three cuts on his arm. Ashton's soulmate had never deliberately hurt their body in any way before today. Why did they suddenly start now? Why did his clock change the time when this unusual event had happened?

The only explanation?

He got a new soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr](http://www.fratcal.tumblr.com). thanks for reading!!


	3. Age Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh age twenty, that last chapter! Are y'all ready? Enjoy enjoy enjoy bby

Calum placed a gentle hand on Ashton's shoulder. "Would you like to say a few words about your mother, Ashton?" the priest offered, looking at him with remorse in his eyes.

"Uh, y- yeah, sure," Ashton stuttered. As he walked toward the older man, Calum's hand dropped from his shoulder. A slight breeze nipped at his neck as he planted his feet aside the priest's, and he shivered. 

It was June, eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and Ashton was cold. He was numb. He felt empty and his heart was masked with a solid, icy sheet. Nothing, for the past four years of his life, had been pleasant. He only needed one hand to count the good times, but all of them were when he was with his mother. He'd never forget the laughs he'd shared with her.

Especially the ones he'd had with her when she was in the hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness. 

Ashton kept his stare on Calum, knowing he was the only person of the group he could find solace in. Next to Calum was his soulmate, Michael. 

Michael was crying, and Ashton didn't question it. He'd only met Ashton's mother once. Though Ashton understood Michael's tears. They were much like his own when the doctors told him his mother's heart stopped beating while she was in a coma. They both wouldn't get to see her again.

Ashton didn't get to say goodbye to her before she took her last breath. Of course, he'd known that there was a zero-percent-chance he'd leave the hospital with his mother in his arms. He hated to admit it, but he had said his goodbyes to his mom every single day. 

Day-by-day, Ashton had expected his mother to call it quits. Despite his telling her that she would live, it was her choice. She had the power to keep up the fight she was losing or surrender to what had already won. He wished she hadn't made the right decision.

When she'd confessed to him that she had stage four lung cancer, he had cried. He'd cried and cried. After comforting him, she had spoken over his tears, "Your father, Ashton."

"W- What about him, Mommy?" Ashton had whispered. Her heart had jumped when his words rung in her ears. 'Mommy,' the word she'd only hear whenever her little boy wanted her attention.

"He had lung cancer," she'd informed, a tsunami of emotions weighing her down. She had hugged her precious son tighter in her arms. "A- And if your soulmate gets injured-"

"He died of lung cancer," Ashton had blurted, cutting off his mother mid-sentence. She'd sighed heavily. It was one the few questions he asked that he could confidently answer by himself.

"He did, baby, and I'm sorry. I knew that I would have cancer, too. I- I was too scared to tell you. If I could have, I would've never told you," she'd said. Ashton was hurting. He was hurting because he was still in his mother's womb when his father died. He was hurting because the cancer took years to control his mother. He was hurting because his father would be the inevitable kickstart to his mother's death.

He didn't want to tell her that. Instead, he'd promised, "You'll get through this. You will beat this cancer, and you'll be alive to meet my soulmate." 

Ashton's soulmate was the root of her happiness. She was looking forward to meeting his lifelong partner, seeing Ashton happy. 

She had always known how reluctant Ashton was to meet his soulmate. Ashton hated (and probably always will) how empty the meaning of love had become. Love was too generalized. Love, to the world as a whole, was doing what was told of them to be accepted into society. It was waiting for a timer to reach zero and freeze.

To Ashton, it was believing his mother would beat cancer and meet his soulmate. It was driving to his mother's house and making her spaghetti after her chemotherapy. It was squeezing his mother's hand while they sat in silence in the hospital's waiting room. It was staying in her room for weeks and weeks as she slipped into an eight-month coma.

Now, he didn't have any love. He was out of love. He had no one to love.

Ashton inhaled a shaky breath, the infamous salty liquid building up at the waterlines of his tired eyes. Because of subconscious habit, Ashton tugged at the sleeves of his collared shirt to hide his wrists. "She was the best mother a boy could ask for. I was a curious child. I was always asking question. If I ever had one, I'd learned to turn to her. She never invalidated anything I felt or believed. She loved my questions. When I was younger, I'd realized why no one liked asking questions. People believe that a timer is something that smooths out flaws. They think a tiny little clock is all they need to live their life, their supposedly perfect life.

"I've never believed that a timer is something I need to make my life seem important. I never believed that because I had my mother. She was the most important thing in my life. She always will be, but now she's gone. I'll miss her." There was so much more he wanted to say. 

He wanted to mention the day she saw the scars on his wrists and hugged him. He wanted to say her exact words when she ran her thumb over the pale lines, "Your soulmate needs you as much as you need them."

He shuffled back to Calum, looking at the people who knew his mother. They weren't crying over what he'd said, but rather over what he hadn't. 

As the casket lowered into the ground, some of them went to Ashton and hugged him. He forced himself to hold his tears back in their presence.

Once the casket was lowered completely, Ashton, Calum, and Michael, waited until everyone else left, including the priest. Finally, with them gone, Calum trapped Ashton in a hug.  
Ashton broke down.

He sobbed into Calum's shoulder, the tears barely staining the button-up shirt because it was black. The tears weren't as noticeable. Ashton only cried harder. 

"Fuck, why me, Calum? Why me?!" he shouted. 

"I'm so sorry, Ash. So fucking sorry," Calum mumbled, his voice cracking. Ashton didn't need to see him to know that Calum was crying.

"Don't be sorry." Ashton was struggling to catch his breath. His cries morphed into hiccups, and he refused to leave his best friend's grasp. "If I can handle my soulmate hurting, I can handle myself hurting."

Calum and Michael were both aware of the cuts on his wrists. The past four years, more cuts had appears on his arms. Both wrists were decorated with his soulmate's story. 

The last thing he had to do was hear the whole story face-to-face, not blade-to-skin.

Ashton finally pulled away. Michael smiled weakly at him, and he returned the favor. It wasn't much, but it was a start. "You guys can leave. I'm going to walk around, clear my head."

Obliging to their mourning friend's request, they hugged him goodbye. Alone completely, he examined all the gravestones surrounding him. All the names were so different and unique. They made him wonder about their lives as well.

"Mommy..." he whispered under his breath. The farther away he'd walked from his mother's casket, the colder his wrist became. It felt as if the blood in his veins was freezing.

A sharp pain struck through him, wrist to heart. 

Skeptical and slightly worried, he lifted his arm. Previously covered by the cuffs on his shirt, his timer was exposed, followed by rows of white lines and an incomplete story.

His timer read: 00:00:04.

He continued walking, the gravestones behind him counting down the seconds.

00:00:03.

One more step. He'd passed another gravestone. He quickly looked up, wondering if his soulmate was visiting a deceased one as well.

00:00:00. His timer froze. He took one last step.

He turned his body to face the gravestone next to him once he saw no one nearing him.

The last sentence of his soulmate's untold story was resting in front of him.

"Luke Hemmings. July 16th, 1996 to May 30th, 2015."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr](http://www.fratcal.tumblr.com). thanks for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](http://www.fratcal.tumblr.com). thanks for reading!!


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